


Ya'aburnee

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Ya'aburnee [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Intimacy, M/M, TW: Blood, Tension, and... French, canon verse (following show canon), spoilers for the finale of season 2, tw: gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You wanted to do it,” Jack reminds him, mildly, regarding the profiler with an interest that makes Will’s skin itch. “You told me you’re a good fisherman. All I’m asking is for you to show it. No more fish tales, I want measurements and I want photographs and when all of this is done, I want him mounted above my fireplace.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Part 3 of the Ya'aburnee series. It helps if you have read the previous two, it does not hinder if you have not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This does follow show canon.
> 
> This does follow show canon to the finale.
> 
> After that... it follows Red Dragon canon.
> 
> You have been warned.

“He’s given me nothing, Jack.”

“I’m finding that harder and harder to believe. If he’s as prolific as you seem to think -”

“He is,” Will insists.

“If he’s as prolific as you seem to think he is,” Jack continues, “then I find it hard to believe that the last few months would yield nothing.” He pauses, pointed. “Especially to you, Will.”

Will runs his hand along his neck, just beneath his shirt collar to graze a familiar bruise. He keeps his eyes trained on a point just behind Jack, and drops his hand.

“He’s too careful,” Will mutters. “Patient. Exceedingly so. He may not even be killing right now, it’s not a - a compulsion, Jack, it’s not something he has to do.”

“Months, Will.”

Another sigh, forced, as he slumps into the seat across from Jack’s desk, focused on a stack of papers there.

“His trust is not easily earned,” Will finally says. “If I had anything solid, anything at all, I would tell you.”

“Would you?”

The question hangs heavy in the air between them, and now Will lifts his gaze, narrowed.

“There’s been nothing.”

“Randall Tier isn’t nothing. Randall Tier is very much a something.” Jack stands, hands planted against the desk, looming like a thunderstorm ready to break. “If it walks like a Ripper victim, and talks like a Ripper victim, then it should be a Ripper victim.”

“You worked that scene with me,” Will says, evenly, training his pulse to steady. “You’ve worked that case more than I have, at this point. You tell me what was left, Jack - tell me what _something_ you found there.”

“I found you.” Cold settling fast between them. “And so far, that’s all I’ve got.”

Will wets his lips, an anxious movement he doesn’t mean to let slip but happens despite himself. “Self-defense.”

“Mutilation. Display. I’m sure if we took a trip out to Wolf Trap -”

“Stop,” Will says suddenly, lifting a hand that he carries to his eyes, to rub beneath his glasses. He’s never been more tired, seeming to sink into the chair. “Stop.”

“I won’t,” Jack warns. “So make damn sure that we know whose victim this is.”

It would be so easy to lay blame. Manipulation, coercion, blackmail, force. Yet all Will remembers is the soft brush of hands through his hair, the bruise on his knee where he'd fallen on the stairs and taken Hannibal with him. The praise.

"I can trap him," Will murmurs. "I can coerce him."

"You do that, Will, and you better be damned sure that I catch him and not you." Jack frowns, watches Will until the other looks up, just above the frames of his glasses.

"I can't keep making excuses for this, Will. For you. Last time, Alana spoke for you. Her word against yours, Will. She won’t do it again."

Will feels something tighten in his chest.

"I've lost agents to their covers, Will. I need to be sure I haven't lost you to this. That you haven't gotten too close."

The sound Will makes is a laugh, soft and bitter.

"I haven't proven myself to you enough?" he murmurs. "Prison made me clear, Jack, did it blind you?"

Terse, tense. Jack's jaw works before he swallows.

"Then do something. Find something."

Will keeps his eyes on Jack, and in a brief motion tilts his head to see him properly. For a moment, he feels that power, that control he swallows from Hannibal like a drug: Jack pales.

"Hannibal thinks you're his man, Will. I think you're mine."

"I know who I am," Will whispers, hoarse.

Now it’s Jack’s turn for a sound like laughter, curt. “That’s almost an answer, Will. You’re not doing much to convince me.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” responds Will, sharp, through his teeth. “If you’ve got this little trust in me, Jack, why ask me to do it all? If you think I’m not capable of distinguishing reality from fantasy, why not just resign me from my position and have someone else do it?”

Will’s fingers wrap around the arms of the chair again, nails leaving crescents against the leather. He thinks of Hannibal’s office, long-distance conversations across mere feet between them, and remembers, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, the precise moment when he did lose track of reality, willingly relinquishing it to soft words and firm mouths.

“You wanted to do it,” Jack reminds him, mildly, regarding the profiler with an interest that makes Will’s skin itch. “You told me you’re a good fisherman. All I’m asking is for you to show it. No more fish tales, I want measurements and I want photographs and when all of this is done, I want him mounted above my fireplace.”

The silence almost echoes with the force of Jack's words.

“How about you trust my intentions, Will?” A gentler voice, now, above the anger. “You’ve got more doubt than I do and you’ve never once considered that maybe I want what’s best for you. If anyone’s in harm’s way here, it’s you, and there’s no way you don’t know that even better than I do.”

Will swallows hard, narrowed eyes still focused on him, watching as Jack moves around the desk to lean against it in front of him.

“The faster we catch him, the safer you are. And then if you want to resign, I won’t stop you, but you can do it knowing that he won’t be able to come after you or anyone else again.”

_Safe._

Will smiles again, expression almost pained.

_I'm the safest I can be, just as I am with him._

Safe will end with this.

"I'll find something, Jack," he murmurs.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Jack smiles.

It takes everything Will has not to shudder at the familiar words from the wrong lips.

-

Hannibal is in the red shirt today, a color that disturbingly brings out red in his eyes and sets Will’s blood humming.

"You're unusually early to dinner," he says, admitting Will in with a gracious sweep, stepping close enough to brush knuckles down the center of his back softly.

"You will need an apron."

He turns to return to the kitchen, knowing Will would follow.

“The snow’s melting,” Will offers in quiet response, shouldering out of his coat. “Traffic wasn’t bad. Last class was just a test today, and they all finished quickly, which is either very good or very bad.”

Small talk, comfortable, as Will tries to let the warmth of the house and of Hannibal ease the cold that’s settled in his stomach. He sets his things neatly by the door, and trails after him towards the kitchen.

He snares up the extra apron when he enters and takes off his glasses, setting them aside and smiling faint when Hannibal ties the back of the apron for him.

Will turns, catching the corner of Hannibal’s mouth beneath his own and lets it linger there until his heart settles. He traces a line down his cheek with chill fingers before drawing away, to where the vegetables sit waiting to be prepared. Something he’s been practicing, under Hannibal’s direction, whereas weeks before he wouldn’t know a slice from a dice.

_I've lost agents to their covers, Will._

Not lost, Will thinks, catching his lip between his teeth as though in focus on the carrots in front of him. He’s been lost plenty, inside himself and inside others, and it’s never felt like this. This feels like found.

He wonders if that’s just how it feels when you get so lost that you know you’ll never be able to get back out again. A calm acceptance and acknowledgment, rather than fear.

“What are we making?”

"Ratatouille," Hannibal replies, his warm accent curling on the foreign word comfortably, and it hits Will that he has no idea how many languages Hannibal speaks, when he learned them, where.

"Comfortable enough to accommodate for your palate, exotic enough that I have not made it often."

Another meatless dish, Will thinks.

"One should always strike a balance with cooking, Will," he continues, his own hands quick and deft cutting the same vegetables Will works meticulously at. A skilled musician with his instrument.

A scrape as Hannibal sets the chopped vegetables where they belong and Will blinks.

"It is a hobby and an art. It should remain both. If it falls to hobby alone, you lose the delicacy and intricacy with the presentation. If it falls too much to art," Hannibal glances up, smiles, "you lose that exquisite taste that your love of the food brings."

Will listens, attentive.

“A harmony,” he responds, pensive, “between extremes.” He watches the easy motions of Hannibal’s hands as they move over the ingredients. Effortless.

But nothing Hannibal does is without effort, Will reminds himself. To the contrary, all that he does well - and he’s yet to see anything that Hannibal does not do well - requires an extraordinary amount of it, and control enough to make it seem effortless.

“It would almost be a jambalaya,” Will suggests, as though it were a passing thought. “If one added meat to it.”

He lets the words hang, and takes up the herbs nearby to start separating them from their stems, leaf by leaf.

Piece by piece.

“ _Tous parle français_?” Will asks suddenly, softly, brows knitting at how unfamiliar the Creole French feels now in his mouth. Certain letters dropped, cut short in a drawling approximation of the language, informal in its grammar and rolling thick off the tongue - untidily spoken, messy and comfortable in its imperfections.

Hannibal pauses, expression almost innocently surprised, unsure what to make of the man in front of him. Will feels his cheeks heat when he realizes the expression is one of gratitude. Relief.

"Of course," he says, accent smoother than Will’s, practiced, though Will can’t figure where he would find the company or time.

For a moment, he says nothing more, watches Will with that soft expression, before ducking his head to continue chopping vegetables for dinner.

"We can adjust the meal to your taste," he says, French careful enough for Will to follow it. "I enjoy improvisation. Challenges."

He glances up at Will, lips quirked.

"Behind you. Third shelf." He nods to the fridge.

Will works his lower lip into his mouth, head tilted just a little to catch the words, and allows a pale smile in return. He sets aside the finely shredded leaves of basil and spines of rosemary and wipes his hands on his apron.

"Your French is better than mine," he responds in kind, a rolling patois loose and heavy, correcting a mistake mid-sentence. It's something Hannibal has heard rarely, a bastardization of was-once-French, almost-might-be-French, bits of English, and a smattering of slang drawn from countless roots. "I only speak Creole French. Cajun. Not well."

Drawing a breath, barely audible, Will makes his way to the fridge, surprised by the brightness of it when he pulls open the door.

Cuts of meat, wrapped neatly in precise swathes of waxed butcher's paper, not plastic wrap. Will smiles faintly at this despite himself, and releases the breath he didn't realize he was holding when he snares out a bundle of sausage. He flexes the fingers of his other hand, a residual pain in his knuckles, and wonders if his work has followed him home.

The thought, unexpected, forces him to swallow hard.

He returns to the counter with something like determination and rests his back against the countertop. Safety in the conversation, in their words, in the softened corners of Hannibal's eyes as he watches him and in the way it makes Will's stomach jump when their eyes meet.

"I learned for investigations," he continues. "People want to talk if you speak their language."

_His trust is not easily earned._

Will turns back to the counter, unfolding the paper to let the sausages drop against the cutting board. He takes up a nearby knife - concerned momentarily that it's the wrong one, but unwilling to stop enough to ask - and begins slicing them in even cuts.

"Where did you learn?"

Hannibal watches; the tension, the quiet, the strange unsteadiness that speaks of unease he hasn't seen in Will in months. He wants to soothe it away, run warm fingers over Will's scalp and watch his eyes close.

He doesn't correct Will for using the wrong knife.

"When I was very young," he says, adds, to Will’s surprise, "after my uncle took me in, I continued my study. French is one of several languages I know."

He looks at Will again, expression still soft, before directing his eyes to Will's hands as they work.

"People appreciate being understood," he says softly, in English. "Understanding is a justification. A vindication. A kindness."

He sets his own work aside and steps closer to Will, placing a hand against his cheek as he kisses him. He feels the unease pass from Will’s lips on a soft sigh and forces it away in a sigh of his own.

He will not let the worry fester.

"Come back, Will," he whispers. "Back to this, to now."

_To me._

Confirmation, in the kiss Will tilts against Hannibal's mouth. He sets the knife aside to run a hand through Hannibal's hair, gathering it between his fingers.

"It's unfair to expect more of someone else than of yourself," Will murmurs, in English, voice soft. "To not take into consideration their needs. Desires. Preferences."

He turns his cheek against Hannibal's palm to press a kiss there as well, and draws away to wash his hands. Files away the little bit of information about Hannibal's uncle, but doesn't press - simply adds it to the history that's building itself in increments.

Drying his hands, Will folds the towel over three times, and sets it a few inches from the sink.

"To find that place with someone, to be so open with them, you have to meet them on their terms, rather than just your own, and find the balance between them. Accept the aspects of the other that may be unfamiliar."

He returns to the meat laid before him and resumes the patient, even slices, and adds, in Creole again, "It gets easier, with time."

Hannibal parts his lips with the tip of his tongue and swallows.

"Time is the catalyst for many things. And yet we treat it with such violence." His words flow as comfortably in French as they did in his softly accented English, the rhythm different but just as soothing.

"People wish to slow time, or speed it up. Kill it."

He notes the folded towel with a soft smile. Doesn't adjust it.

"So few people allow it to flow unhindered. To allow its own desires to settle and merge, tilt and adjust. Few negotiate."

He watches Will work with the meat, heart beating heavy and slow. Negotiation. Acceptance.

Time allowed to flow for it.

"What next?" he asks in English, inclining his head in a gentle bow and gesturing for Will to direct dinner, now that he's chosen to adjust it.

Will ducks his head, an unexpected grin appearing in sudden chagrined amusement, but fought back down into a slight smile.

"Hopefully nothing changes too much in the negotiation," he replies.

He navigates the byzantine kitchen to find a skillet, cast iron, a flicker of curiosity back over his shoulder as Hannibal allows him the uncorrected, unguided freedom to move through the space. He's careful not to bang and clatter the way he does in his own kitchen when he does manage to cook, but moves a little slower, a little more thoughtfully, and without much room for small talk as he tries to forget how many times he's surely alarmed Hannibal's palate trying to cook for him.

Neither does Will demand, in the imperious way he tends to when he's giving instructions, but rather requests things he's not sure he can find - particular spices, olive oil, a pepper, which he asks politely to be cut. He observes as Hannibal does so, and Will has to fight down another smile. He gathers the sliced meat in hand, a brief swallow forcing itself down his throat as he does, and then scatters the pieces into the searing pan.

"I'd normally add enough hot peppers that you couldn't really taste anything else," he comments, absently, trying to ignore the way his stomach turns over not in disgust, but in hunger. The peppers are tossed in alongside. "I'll resist the urge."

A balance.

"Do you mind finishing the vegetables? I wouldn't know where to start," Will murmurs, glancing at the ratatouille already begun.

Hannibal watches Will take in his space, acquaint himself with it, move within it. He steps closer at the request, rests a hand against Will’s lower back and ducks his head to almost nuzzle against him.

"Of course."

There's a strange sort of surrender, allowing Will to work with the meat when he himself tends to the vegetables. An unusual juxtaposition that sends a warmth spreading through Hannibal's fingers, down his back.

He kisses the side of Will's head, just below the hairline to feel skin to skin, and smiles wider.

"Perhaps today," he suggests softly, "we can try more subtle flavors."

"I suppose slash-and-burn can't be everyone's preferred style," Will responds, wry, as he leans into Hannibal, shoulder and side pressing into him, as much for the comfortable closeness as to be a deliberate distraction - for himself, more even than Hannibal. He tries to suppress his amusement, furrowing his brows just so, as though in absolute concentration.

To forget what he's doing. To forget what he's going to do. To forget what has to be done.

He switches off the burner and steals a kiss from the corner of Hannibal's mouth before facing the formidable kitchen again to gather utensils.

He resists the urge to ask after the scotch he left before, working steadiness into his nerves with a quick flex of fingers instead, and he removes the apron to hang it again.

He also resists the urge to ask who's joining them for dinner, a swell of black humor, as he watches Hannibal combine the meat with the vegetables, and averts his eyes.

"Is there a wine, or - " a pause, hesitant. "I can get it, if you tell me which I should I get. I don't understand pairing. It all tastes like wine to me."

Hannibal raises an amused eyebrow.

"There can be wine." He says, head tilted. He imagines, for a moment, teaching Will the subtleties of wine. How to appreciate tannins, how to make the smell and the taste of the wine work properly together.

He imagines kissing the taste of Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru from Will's lips as the younger man murmurs protests against him for the price of it but opens his lips for him regardless as Hannibal feeds him more from his tongue.

"Zinfandel," he says, expression giving none of his thoughts away. "To compliment the spiciness of your dish. Red, I think."

He licks his lips. "It will be in the cellar. I have shown you where."

Hannibal watches Will go, steps hesitant but shoulders back, and rests his hands curled on the table with a sigh.

He wonders what scene Will had been forced to endure today to bring him to this.

Hannibal’s eyes slide to the couch, the side barely visible around the corner in the dark living room and turns his eyes away with a brief quirk of lips.

Better that, to remember, than to consider the doubts twisting in his mind. He takes up the two pristine plates to set, and doesn't look up when Will returns with the bottle.

"You have quite a collection." Will sets the bottle gingerly on the counter and takes up the bottle opener - this, he knows how to find even in Hannibal's kitchen - and spends an undue amount of time opening it, wary of corking a wine whose cost he doesn't dare ask. He tried to select something newer, less covered in dust, just in case he does.

He doesn't, and seems decidedly pleased by this as he pours them each a glass. He resists the urge to fill his as he normally would and instead fills the partial amount as he's seen Hannibal do so many times.

As Hannibal motions for Will to sit, he settles into the chair not at the head of the table, but beside it. He lifts the glass to his nose, mirroring the way Hannibal will, and breathes deep.

"Smells like wine," Will notes, dry. The food looks and smells better than he would ever admit, a cold comfort considering, and instead watches Hannibal. The shift of his body beneath the shirt that flatters him so, the smile seen just in the corners of his eyes, and Will releases a small breath, returning the smile as Hannibal seats himself.

"We did well," he offers, and can't help but add, "I hope."

"I have faith it will be a most satisfying evening," Hannibal says, lips parting on a brief breath then settling pressed into a smile.

He's relaxed, comfortable. Pleased with Will’s return to jest and softness.

When he takes up his cutlery, he is careful to try the meat first. A cut of meat Will had provided him that he had turned into sausage. Hannibal bites carefully, pulls the meat from the fork with his teeth before wrapping his lips around the morsel.

It's smoky. A spiciness that comes from game meat, human flesh. He can taste the herbs Will had requested, subtle and complimentary. The meat is tender, tasty, and entirely Will’s creation.

His new design.

"My compliments to the chef," Hannibal says softly, eyes hooded as he regards Will. He takes up his glass, holds it out towards his profiler. A toast.

Will lifts his glass gently in return, and watches as Hannibal takes a sip before doing the same.

Fondness, in his lingering look, a warmth that spreads as he considers the man at his side who for all the darkness he harbors provides Will a comfort he has yet to fully grasp. Resolutely charming, persistently fascinating, and with a depth of affection that's almost painful to Will in its profundity.

A reminder, as he watches, of why time has flowed in this particular way for them.

Still, a hesitation, as Will lifts his fork - the barest trace of tension in his jaw as he fights down a last flare of panic into the smallest reaction he can manage. Fighting down the desire to push the plate aside and draw Hannibal to him, to replace the remains of Randall Tier with his own mouth instead, full of breath and life and movement, to work his light into that darkness until they merge inseparable.

But it works both ways, and as Will takes a bite, he's again made aware of how comfortable the darkness feels.

"I have an excellent teacher," Will finally responds, genuine in his gentle surprise.

Hannibal smiles, pleased, and returns his eyes to his own meal to spare Will the scrutiny. He will give him time. He will give him the comfort needed to cement this experience as good.

He no longer calls it conditioning.

They eat in relative silence, enjoying the wine, the company. When Hannibal stands to take their plates, he lets Will curl his fingers in his tie to pull him into a kiss, closes his eyes to it.

Grateful for the understanding, the effort. For trying.

When they break, Hannibal sighs, a soft sound between them.

Will helps with the dishes, as Hannibal cleans away any lingering disorganization on the counters. Familiar roles in a routine that they're settling into, with an ease that surprises them both. As equally comfortable as when they retire together, to whisper affections tender and teasing against the other's skin and to lose themselves to each other.

Will sleeps twined close to Hannibal, as always, but when he wakes before dawn the next morning he's surprised he slept at all.

He has to go back to Wolf Trap, he tells Hannibal, eyes closed as their lips brush, and Will shivers beneath the hand that sorts fondly through his hair before he leaves.

His eyes fall on the aprons, hanging together, and he goes into the kitchen. A long hesitation, stark and still in the quiet house, before he opens the refrigerator.

Third shelf.

_I'll find something, Jack._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am afraid," Will starts, and with a dry laugh, considers stopping there. It would certainly be honest, the most applicable phrase to encapsulate his entire sordid life. "I am afraid of how much you matter."

The first thing he smells is the cigarettes, hanging heavy and sour against Will’s skin.

A brief memory unfurls, like the echo of the ghostly silver smoke, of Will in his office, pulling the filter from his lips, tendrils of grey just behind.

Hannibal breathes slowly, careful to sift through the rest of the olfactory scene; dogs and motor oil, pine and snow, exhaustion and panic.

In front of him, Will stands smiling.

"You're early," Hannibal murmurs, allowing his lips to quirk.

"I was going to wait," Will responds, peeling out of his coat to hang it beside the door. He dusts the snow out of his hair and regards the empty waiting room. "Your patients are like my students - they stop showing up as soon as there's a little bit of snow."

"I made it out to Wolf Trap earlier," he continues. “Fed the dogs. Looks like it might snow more overnight so I thought I'd just come by early." A pause, and a faint smile. "Since we have an appointment anyway."

Alone together, Will reaches for Hannibal and gently gathers the sleeve of his jacket to bring him closer. His kiss is warm, despite the cold clinging to his skin, and his mouth tastes of mint overlaying the dense smoke beneath.

"The appointment stands regardless of everything else," Hannibal confirms, eyes down to look at Will's lips, to read the nervous gestures there. He considers his words.

He knows the dogs don't get fed and shut in until 9.

He blinks, his smile widens. Doesn't reach his eyes.

"You are my last for the night. My eight-thirty decided not to brave the snow,” he hums. “Like your students."

He kisses Will again, chaste, and strokes fingers through his hair.

"Perhaps we should both retire."

"I thought the appointment stands regardless," Will teases, faintly smiling. He releases Hannibal's sleeve, smooths it with a soft stroke over the garish plaid, and then again for good measure.

For assurance.

"Either way, I'm yours," adds Will, drawing back into his coat.

Hannibal's eyes close, his jaw works. When Will turns back, the doctor tilts his head.

"Shall we?"

-

The snow falls slowly, a quiet settling of flakes in the meticulously kept garden. The house is just barely cold as Hannibal sets one knee on the tile by the fireplace and works on starting the fire.

The heat spreads slowly, consumes the wood with soft crackling and aromatic smoke.

Will has found a place - his place - on the couch, and he observes with close, quiet attention as Hannibal stokes the logs to burning. He watches from beneath his arm, the way that Hannibal's shoulders curve and the reserves of strength that Will has only once felt, and even then not truly. Swallowing hard, unseen behind Hannibal, he closes his eyes to listen to the wood crackle and split.

"I'm sorry for smelling like smoke," he offers, quiet. "Stress. Oral fixations. Self-destruction." At this, a faint smile, when he feels Hannibal move nearer to the couch.

Will finds Hannibal when he extends his arm, and touches down his wrist to snare his hand and pull him closer still. He rolls onto his side, blue eyes widening as they lift to meet Hannibal's own. "All the usual," he adds. "I guess I didn't need an appointment this week after all."

"Understanding and diagnosing a problem is a step, Will. The work comes with planning adjustments and recovery." Hannibal smiles, flexes his fingers against Will's, finds his grip is returned, held, and that Will's fingers are sticky with nervous sweat.

"The appointment would have covered your break from a routine," he continues, turning just enough to settle on the couch where Will has drawn his knees up, and drapes his arm over them in a familiar comfort. "A routine I have seen you keep since the time you found me blatantly uninteresting."

He raises an eyebrow, strokes his thumb over Will's thigh just once, drawing his attention to it.

"I suppose it was a mercy to feed the dogs sooner, to keep them from the cold. Yet every time you have arrived to an appointment early, you have never gone in then."

_What are you doing, Will?_

Will curls closer around Hannibal’s back, thighs drawn against his leg. He tucks one arm beneath his head, and rests other across Hannibal’s lap where he traces the plaid along his pants, following the lines as they intersect and part, again and again.

“I’ve found myself increasingly breaking with old routines,” Will responds, watching as his fingers follow the patterns, “in favor of creating new ones.”

A smile catches the corner of his mouth. “And I wanted to see you. A particularly astute observer might draw parallels between those two things.”

Hannibal’s eyes lower, not enough to see Will’s hands work, far enough to no longer watch him.

_An astute observer might draw different conclusions._

The fire is slowly heating the room they share, the orange glow the only thing to see by, not including the light in the kitchen Hannibal had left on that barely reaches them. In this light, Will looks more tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent, the furrow between his brows present where Hannibal had kissed it smooth not days before.

“Certain changes and variations in routine serve to benefit an individual,” he says softly, “Others serve to project a message where the conscious mind cannot utter it.”

He settles his eyes on Will again.

“You haven’t slept.” His lips turn up at the corners. “Has the window not served you well to keep out cold and noise?”

Will watches past his fingers, past the designs they follow, and draws his hand between them instead, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s thigh.

“I would need more than a window to do that,” Will responds, quiet amusement.

Slowly he unfurls, pushing himself upward, and grinds a hand against his eye. “I haven’t been sleeping, no. A little bit, here, with you. But not a lot. It’s just stress. Work. I’ve been trying not to drink myself past it this time,” he adds, chagrined.

Drawing his leg to his chest, bare foot against the cushion, Will rests his cheek on his knee. He reaches out to run his hand along Hannibal’s cheek, thumb stroking soft along his cheekbone. “It’ll pass,” he assures him, softly. “I’ll be okay. I’m here, with you.”

The words bring Hannibal’s breathing to still for a moment, the held breath stinging his lungs before he finally allows it free.

_This, too, shall pass._

“Jack is working you harder, now, though it is no longer as difficult for you to see,” Hannibal murmurs, turning his face against Will’s hand gently, but his eyes don’t close, they don’t leave Will’s.

“It is just as difficult to reconcile the dissonance between your morals and your choices,” he adds, pushing back just a little, not a rejection of the touch simply a shift from it. His hand remains on Will’s thigh, still gentle. Though his eyes narrow, now, and he allows himself to swallow, show his own discomfort.

“Creating harmony from disorder,” Will replies. He shakes his head, eyes searching between Hannibal’s when he smiles a little. “I’m not a composer. I just try to play what I’m given. Usually poorly.”

He uncurls his legs from the couch, stretches, and draws them up again to push himself gently into Hannibal’s lap. No distance now, physically, as Will wraps an arm over his shoulder and breathes warm against his neck.

His voice is scarcely above a whisper, achingly soft.

“You are not my dissonance, Hannibal. I don’t need to reconcile you,” Will murmurs, and he catches his hands in Hannibal’s hair, letting it slide between his fingers. “Not anymore. It would be like needing to reconcile a limb.”

The admission draws Hannibal’s brows higher, by enough of a degree for Will to notice.

Perhaps this is all there is. Perhaps this is all he means.

And Hannibal wants so much to believe that, to allow himself to. To fall headfirst into this and succumb; to the soft touches of Will’s coaxing fingers, to the inviting, familiar warmth of Will’s body. He wants the fire and the wine, the soft words between them.

But the smell of panic still radiates of Will like the cloying sweetness of his encephalitis had - just as sickly, as sticky and unpleasant.

“Then what are you afraid of?” he asks quietly.

Will watches Hannibal from close. Only someone who is fearless, or controlled enough to make it seem as though they are, would ask Will Graham such a question, and it draws in his brows.

"I hope you never find out how long that list really is," he finally responds.

Will can feel the alarm building in Hannibal with a single skipped beat, the dawning wariness harsh and discordant between them, and Will shifts to straddle his legs instead, to close that distance and rest his forehead against Hannibal's shoulder. There's no lust in it, no smoldering passion stoking to engulf them, but another need whose flames singe far deeper.

"I am afraid," Will starts, and with a dry laugh, considers stopping there. It would certainly be honest, the most applicable phrase to encapsulate his entire sordid life. "I am afraid of how much you matter."

Without raising his head, he touches Hannibal's neck, lets his fingers rest against his pulse.

_Would you miss me?_

"I feel you like a part of me. Not an equal, not an extension, a part that makes up the sum. When you're not near enough, I feel it everywhere, in little twitches and spasms - constantly trying to find a piece of myself that's missing."

His voice is tired, thick with the weight of his words and with exhaustion, and he hurts when he speaks, as though this part of himself required a bone saw to reach.

"You don't just reside in me like everyone else, coming and going with memories. You never come and you never go because you're always there. And if we ever had to be removed from each other," Will stops, swallows hard with a clicking sound in his throat, and allows himself to breathe for a few moments.

_What would I do without you?_

His voice is softer still when he speaks again.

"I don't think I could survive it. I don't know if you'd survive it either. Neither of us. Not unscathed. Maybe not at all. It would be dismemberment. It would be tearing out our own organs with our bare hands and hoping that we can just both just 'get by'."

Will rubs damp heat from his eyes, without lifting his head. "I know where my morals are. But what this means for the choices terrifies me."

A heartbeat passes between them, and Will's fingers spread slow against Hannibal's neck. "Please breathe."

The words sting.

Not in their untruth but in their opposite.

There are few things that frighten Hannibal. Loss of control. Loss of certainty. Truths that inevitably bring about both.

Obligingly, he takes a breath. Exhales.

His hands settle against Will’s legs, just gently holding him close. The breathing hits a rhythm, restful and slow, continues until Will matches it, until they breathe as one entity, one living being.

"What choices?" he asks softly.

_Will, what did you do?_

There is a pause, just enough hesitation that it says more than Will himself does when he responds.

"Many," Will murmurs. "Countless. A lifetime of them that lead me here."

He turns his face towards Hannibal's neck, breathing soft against his skin, the same place he finds when they’re pulled together breathless and eager. He presses the length of his body against Hannibal to feel the nearness of them.

Wholeness.

But they are not spent and sweaty and pleased and flushed now, as much as Will tries to convince himself they are, with cold like glaciers digging icy in his stomach. He swallows hard and sits up straight, hands braced against Hannibal's chest and a pale hope in the smile that just touches his eyes as he searches Hannibal's dark gaze.

"What if we made a choice together," Will offers, eager assuredness that despite his sudden confidence drips of the desperation of faith. "Break all the routines. All of them except ours. We could - we could go somewhere. Tonight, even. I've fed the dogs and Alana can take care of them while we’re gone. Grab some clothes and just go. France, maybe. Anywhere.” A hesitation, just brief, before it’s replaced by something firmer, a quiet insistence. “We could go now. Someplace warm. Just for a while."

Hannibal's expression doesn't change, his eyes stay focused on Will. After a moment his lips tilt.

He knows Will sees through the smile, through the gentle expression to the cold worry beneath.

_Will, what did you do?_

"Routines begin somewhere," he says, hands curling up around Will’s sides, holding him gently. "They must be made before they're broken. As everything."

_As trust._

He searches Will’s face, for a truth there too, for something else.

He leans in to kiss him when he finds nothing. The kiss slow, deep, a silent forgiveness. Forcing himself to let go.

When he pulls back, Hannibal sighs.

"We will go tomorrow."

A smile breaks sudden in response and Will nods, with a sigh that almost sounds like laughter. He catches Hannibal's face in his hands and draws himself in, kisses him again and again, heavy and soft with aching little sounds catching his breath between each. He doesn't bother to hide the relief that floods so fast through him that it gives him vertigo, that it sets his hands to trembling until he can steady them a moment later.

"Tomorrow," Will agrees, searching Hannibal's face and seeing the cold restraint beneath it and soothing it away, trying to, by touching in soft lines down his cheeks and pushing his hair back from his face.

Adoration and relief, absolute and fierce.

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll come for you." He kisses Hannibal again, so firmly that he rises up onto his knees and arches into him. "It’ll just be us. No one else," he breathes, a shared sigh between the closeness of their mouths. "No more dissonance."

Hannibal allows it, holds him close, takes the affection, the softness, the desperation he can feel Will trying to self soothe. He knows Will's words are true. That a break from each other would be a wound, gaping and oozing. It would not be easy, or safe, or forgettable.

It would be tearing and hoping.

And something twists, pulled to its limit and turned, like leather pulled too taut, and Hannibal returns the desperation, the aching.

Unlearning Will as meticulously as he had learned him.

Will becomes movement, revived from the cold into a frantic need as his fingers work quickly over the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, shoving it back from his shoulders and kissing down his neck. His mouth lingers over his collarbone, and his hands press hard across Hannibal’s bare stomach, up over his chest where his fingers curl and draw pale red lines in their retreat back down.

“Tomorrow,” he sighs against Hannibal’s shoulder, before leaning back enough to peel off his sweater and drop it to the floor. The promise of the word as sweet as wine, as comforting as the taste of Hannibal’s mouth against his when he rocks slowly against him.

A promise.

Will’s fingertips are still cold as he rubs his palms down Hannibal’s stomach, beneath his pants to grasp him with both hands, gasping gently against the doctor’s mouth.

“Only you,” Will whispers. “Only us.”

"Yes."

The word is a groan, a soft sound of both pleasure and relief. Just them. Just this.

Just now, before Hannibal steps away, lets this go. Lets him go.

His own hands grasp Will just as strongly, draw their own marks over his back, against the fabric of his shirt - one Hannibal has bought him he notices.

It tugs against something deep in Hannibal and he makes a gentle sound, head down.

"Will."

Will can't hear him, won't hear him like this, tries not to let the gentle way Hannibal intones his name carve itself into him and knowing that it will anyway.

He feels it wound and lets himself bleed Hannibal's name back to him, presses it against his skin when he kisses the corner of Hannibal's mouth.

 _Tomorrow_ , _tomorrow_ , _tomorrow_ like a mantra matching the rise and fall of Will's panting breaths as he braces his hands on either side of Hannibal and presses hard down against him, rocking languidly. Steadily. Unhurried.

A familiar refrain, a fond assurance.

"Yours," Will murmurs against his neck and he sinks against Hannibal to let his arms pull Will closer against him, and turn him to lay back across the couch.

Will's couch, as he had come to think of it, but no longer.

"We'll have to get a new couch," he whispers, a grin flickering across his lips. "When we get there."

_And many things besides._

Hannibal just presses his face to Will’s skin, breathes him in, memorizes the beat of his heart as it hammers against him.

One-two-three, forget, forget, forget.

_Will, what have you done?_

"You will miss the dogs," he murmurs. “You will miss the forest, Will, the river."

There is a desperation between them but not urgency. Every touch is heat and memory, soft touches, harsh nails, wet lips and sighs.

The grin falters, breaks, and he tries to fight the tension that he knows Hannibal can read in his eyes, his voice.

“I know,” Will says finally, and he can’t make himself say more on it. It’s enough.

He lets himself go, lets the sheer terror sharp and cold in his veins warm against Hannibal, who wraps an arm beneath him to pull him tighter.

Will grasps his hair, lets the lank strands fall disorganized beneath his fingers, little sounds drawn soft each time Hannibal touches him - holds his hip, snares beneath his knee to lift his leg higher, joins their fingers to press beside Will’s head.

 _Selfish_.

 _Manipulative_.

Lost to Hannibal, consumed by him, as he’s always been.

“Stay here, Will. Stay with this.”

Will’s not sure if Hannibal says the words or if he’s only imagined  them, and he laughs.

"Close your eyes,"

Will does, by Hannibal’s request or by his own mind's, he does.

"Head back."

He doesn't let the pendulum swing, not now, but the image is so clear. Of the river, the snow, the dogs dipping their noses into the freezing water...

Hannibal in one of his ridiculous suits and uncaring that his shoes are muddy. Hair grayer. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deeper.

It feels so warm. So real.

Will turns against the body above him, and speaks a confession drawn from a place Will doesn’t go, doesn’t allow himself to go in all the depths of emotion that claw and rend at him to be given life through his words, a word spoken around in all their exchanges breathless and passionate now spoken clearly but as soft as the way the wind moved through the trees when they sat beside each other at the river and were still and quiet.

What didn’t need to be said then, but needs to be said now.

And Will wraps his arms tighter around Hannibal’s neck, taking refuge in him as he feels his lungs split and his ribs crack and his heart shudder until it feels like it’s going to stop.

Again and again, Will whispers, the way he once gasped apologies broken against the floor, until his voice grows still but for the small panting breaths that hitch in his throat when he finds release.

Hannibal swallows, buries his face against Will’s hair and breathes. Smells the softness of him, the heat of his release, the cool smoke, the stark snow. He feels those words pressed against him, feels how heavy they are.

How comfortable.

He draws his lips down over Will’s temples, lower to his cheekbones, over the stubble he can feel rough under his tongue.

When he kisses him, fully, properly, he feeds Will’s words back to him. Means every one.

The words etch themselves into Will in an instant, carved into his memory in their sound and their feel and and every sensation that they stir across Will's skin like electricity.

He won't forget how they feel for as long as he's alive.

Drawing close to Hannibal, to turn against him and lay alongside him, sighing heat against his chest, Will feels the cracks between them. They are sharp and they are jagged and they cut but they can be repaired. Not erased, but the basis for renewal. Not scars, but lifelines.

A long time passes in silence, listening to the other breathe, before - shaking - words snare themselves from Will.

Another confession, torn out this time rather than released.

"Jack knows," Will says, face tucked close against Hannibal's chest.

Safe.

Secure.

He swallows down the guilt that's weighed down his shoulders and his steps for days and forces himself to speak, to bare himself to Hannibal so he knows and so they can start to seam the cracks together again.

"He needed - something. Randall." Another hard swallow, mouth dry. "All he had was me and - he needed you or I would be indicted, and -"

A hesitation, a soft sound like choking, just once before he forces that down too and steadies his voice, steadies his hands that slide over the familiar curves of Hannibal's face to read him without seeing.

"I had to do something, I had to give him something so that we had time. I'll fix this. We'll fix this. We'll go and it won't matter anymore.”

 _Something_.

"Breathe, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, soothing him, turning into his touches, allowing him to memorize him like this, soft, relaxed. He parts his lips to kiss the fingertips gently, forgets that part of him too, as he had meticulously forgotten the rest.

Methodically forced himself to forget.

Convinced himself he had.

"Close your eyes."

Will listens to Hannibal, as he always has, wrapped fiercely around him until he finally finds sleep, and his limbs fall loose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polite reminder that this does follow show canon.
> 
> This does follow show canon to the finale.
> 
> After that... it follows Red Dragon canon.
> 
> You have been warned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will’s eyes are wide, unblinking in the dim room, as Hannibal steps closer still. He forces a deep breath into his lungs, to warm away the cold that’s gathering there, to ease the animal flutter of his heart.
> 
> Not a god, not a monster. _His._

_“Alana, it’s Will. Hey. Something’s come up and I’m getting pulled out of town for a few days and since you still have the keys from last time, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind stopping by to feed the dogs while I’m gone. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see Applesauce again, too. If you can’t - I know you’re busy - could you hand the keys off to Zeller? I left him a message, too, just in case. Thanks, Alana.”_

A pause.

_“Take care of yourself.”_

-

Will’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel again, to repeat the mental checklist he’s run through so many times he could recite it in his sleep if there were any to be found.

_Fed the dogs, extra in case Alana can’t make it._

_Called in a substitute for classes._

_Called the dean to apologize for being out again, but this flu’s really nasty and keeps coming back._

_Called Zeller and told him he could help himself to the booze if Alana can’t take care of the dogs._

_Packed a bag with clothes and a book and passport._

At this, Will reaches into his coat pocket to ensure it’s still there. It is.

_Shoulder-holstered sidearm._

This, a sudden sharp spur of paranoia that something might go wrong, to be dropped somewhere before they go to the airport.

_Pet the dogs._

_A lot._

His jaw works and he swallows hard, and takes the turn onto Hannibal’s street for the last time.

_Called Alana._

He frowns, pulling into the driveway to park.

Alana will take good care of them. She’ll take in one or two, maybe - find good homes for the others. It won’t be hard to find students who are happy to help out.

_Breathe, Will._

He stands in front of the house for a moment, bag over his shoulder, and allows himself quiet. Will studies the house with a closeness he hasn’t in the past, the shape of it - large and foreboding - and he walks himself through each of the rooms whose windows he can see.

The bedroom, as comfortable as his own by now.

The stairs, where he chased and was chased.

The kitchen where they cooked and the livingroom where Will found his place on the couch and the dining room where they pressed their legs together while they ate and drank wine and were quiet together.

Will smiles, faintly, pleased to find each room remembered well.

There is no music in the house, when he opens the door. The space feels hollow without it, a chest without a heartbeat, and it sends Will's own hammering.

Another panic, just as cold, slips under his bones with the thought that Hannibal had been found already, that Jack had arrived first, had taken Hannibal away. He thinks of his own struggle against the man’s speed, his strength. He remembers the utter helplessness of being caught by a predator, merciless, indifferent.

He wonders if he will find Jack in pieces.

Silent, he draws the firearm, down against his side and heavy. He slides his finger over the safety gently but does not yet flick it.

The house remains just as silent, no movement upstairs or down. Will's panic rises to his throat, stifles his breathing to short, desperate things as he continues past the kitchen, through the dining room.

_Please_ , he thinks, _please don't be gone_.

He finds Hannibal in the study, facing the window, the bottle of scotch open on the sill, but nearly as full as it had been when Will had seen Hannibal take it away.

"I thought you were gone,” he says, a soft rush of breath and relief.

Hannibal turns, eyes immediately down to look at the gun, expression sliding quick from a small smile to utterly closed. Not a cornered animal so much as a startled one.

"A gun, Will?"

Will’s mouth is so dry he can barely swallow, adrenaline searing molten steel across his tongue, and he shakes his head. His eyes dart to the scotch, and then back to Hannibal.

“No, it was -” a stammer, holding the gun loose in his hand, finger clear of the trigger. “I was worried.”

All the hairs on his arms raise on end as Hannibal takes a step towards him, and Will holsters the gun, resisting the urge to raise his hands. In surrender? To calm him? He chews his lip and rubs his palms along his pants instead, sweating.

Every instinct sings sharp - _I told you to run_ \- but he stands still and watches, evenly.

A predator perhaps, but _his_.

“I’m sorry for being late,” Will offers to the silence between them. “Traffic.”

A pause, and a hint of fear touches his voice.

“I thought you were gone.”

Hannibal tilts his head, just barely, blinks.

Will could sob for the relief of seeing Hannibal’s eyes as his own again.

"If Jack knows," he reminds Will carefully, "I could not leave. Not without significant effort."

He steps closer, watches Will resist the urge to step back.

_What are you afraid of, Will?_

"You said to wait," he says gently, another step. "For you."

Will’s eyes are wide, unblinking in the dim room, as Hannibal steps closer still. He forces a deep breath into his lungs, to warm away the cold that’s gathering there, to ease the animal flutter of his heart.

Not a god, not a monster. _His_.

Will reaches out to rest a hand on Hannibal’s cheek and manages a pale smile. He knows this face, the structure of the bones where his thumb strokes softly, and he knows the darkness in Hannibal’s eyes that lingers even when they’re softened.

“I told you I was worried,” Will replies, rueful, before he lowers his hand again to rub his eyes beneath his glasses. “We should go. I fed the dogs. I let Alana know I’m leaving for a few days. She has keys.” A pause, anxiety twisting tight in him. “Passport.”

He worries his lower lip, to keep his checklist to himself.

“We should go.”

Hannibal watches Will, watches his movements and tension, watches the subtle suggestions of fear within him. Like he had once looked at crime scenes.

"Trust is a balance, Will," he says softly. "It is work and power. A particular sort of effort."

"Do you trust Jack Crawford, Will?" Hannibal's lips press together. "His foundation, his morality?"

_With the way he treated you? With what he wants you to do now?_

_Live bait._

"Do you trust me?"

Will goes still. Something in the air changes and he tilts his head to it, to the softened tone that reaches him. As soft as ice and just as cold inside him.

He sighs something that might have been a laugh once, but isn’t now, and bites back the demand that they talk about this later, when they have time. Time enough to flow unhindered for them both, so they can fix this.

Fix what Will broke.

“I trusted Jack, yes,” Will says evenly. “His experience, his skill. But morality isn’t an area in which we’ve ever found much common ground.”

“I trust you,” Will answers, gentle emphasis on the difference in his words. He doesn’t snarl and snap, he doesn’t growl. He relinquishes, instead, expression softening. “Sometimes I think you’re the only person I completely trust.”

He studies Hannibal, and his brows draw in when he realizes he can’t read him, can’t see past the mask set firmly back in place.

As though they’re across the office from each other again, motionless but for mirrored movements, circling each other like wolves.

Will can’t hide the tension in his jaw, flexing in something like pain before a smile catches the corner of his mouth, and never reaches his eyes. “I would ask you the same thing, but I’m not sure I want to hear the answer right now.”

The smile that flits across Hannibal’s face is brief and for just a second, Will sees something. He sees what he saw when Hannibal sang the lullaby to him, voice gentle, words foreign and comforting.

"There are many things, Will, that I have given you, beyond my trust. There are things I have asked returned. Others you gave me yourself."

He takes a breath, one hand flexing gently.

And then, Hannibal allows his mask to fall, allows Will to see his brows draw, his lips twitch barely in a smile.

"I gave you a gift, Will, you did not want it," he steps close, enough to feel Will's warmth against his chest. "I will not take it back."

Will’s hands tense, a resistance to reaching for him, as he normally would, fighting down the impulse - the habit, now - to pull Hannibal close and draw their mouths together until there’s nothing left but them. A disbelief gathers in his eyes, and he sighs, a joyless amusement in the breath.

“You gave me other gifts, too, do you remember? Gifts that I didn’t want,” he finally responds, and he can’t staunch the bleed in his words. “And you didn’t take those back either. I kept all of those gifts, and I still came back. I came back again and again. I’m here right fucking now.”

A stark silence between them before Will swallows, and asks, gentler perhaps but unwavering even as he feels the darkness bearing down on him. “Please. I want to go. I want to go with you.”

_With you._

Hannibal swallows, for a moment stays where he is without a word. Then he steps close, palm against Will’s cheek, thumb drawing under his eye.

He just watches, just looks at Will’s eyes as they soften, bright and blue and on _him_.

"We will go," he murmurs, eyes closing as he leans in to kiss Will, feels him part pliant beneath him, feels the sigh, soft against his skin. He turns against Will’s hand on his shoulder, pulls back enough to breathe over Will’s lips.

His fingers flex around the smooth handle in his hand, warm from his palm.

"Stay still," he whispers, tilts his head to make Will lift his, curls his arm around Will’s middle and holds him close as he slides the blade against his stomach, feels the sharp edge slip beneath the skin, though Will’s shirt. Well-maintained.

_Mercy._

"Breathe."

Will does not do as Hannibal asks this time, if only because he can’t, when his lungs empty all at once past silenced lips parted slack.

He feels the heat pour over his hand before he sees the darkness spilling from him, and there’s a moment of distant surprise when his knees go weak so quickly, and the roar of pain muffles everything like snowfall. Hannibal's arm locks tighter around him to keep him from falling, and Will grasps clinging to him.

_Here. Now. You._

When he finally swallows down a breath, a gasping, choking thing, his eyes meet Hannibal’s, uncomprehending, and it breaks shaking past his lips just as quickly.

It almost sounds like a laugh.

Hannibal presses closer, swallows and takes the breath Will exhales. He can hold him, can support him until he grows too heavy, until he will let go and Will won’t get up.

_Like tearing out our own organs with our bare hands._

_Hoping we can both just 'get by'._

"Your trust has always been your weakness, Will," he whispers. “Too easily given, too easily allowed."

He feels Will whimper and hold tighter, the blade sinking deeper.

Little pain. Very little pain.

For Will.

"A genuine desire to relinquish responsibility, to use someone to excuse your mistakes, your failings." His voice hitches, fingers curl tight in the back of Will’s shirt.

Hannibal always did talk too much, Will thinks with passing, dizzy fondness in a moment of clarity like surfacing above waves that are coming faster, heavier over him with each moment that passes, before a cry jerks free from him.

Will snares his arm around Hannibal's neck but his fingers curl sharp now against his skin to keep himself standing, and he settles, although his body shakes outside of his control, he settles and he turns his face against Hannibal's neck and he tries not to fall too soon into the darkness gathering fast at his feet and now he does laugh, soft as the sound of his blood against the floor.

A whisper, faltering against Hannibal's skin.

"What would I do without you?"

_Live._

The thought strikes sharp, cold through Hannibal when he turns the question on himself and finds he has no answer.

He can do nothing.

"Remain unremarkable,” he says. "Pathetic. Frightened. Useless as you are."

His voice is quiet, steady, heart beating faster as he feels Will’s slow.

"You knew me before I let you know me. You knew what I was. You killed for me. You liked it."

_Take me with you._

_We can go now._

"Weakness is to be pitied. Its foolishness forgiven."

_Now._

"Delusions, Will, is all you are. You are worth _nothing_ to me."

Only now does a broken sound fall wounded, past paling lips.

Only now does Will let himself fall in kind, knees hitting hard against the ground.

Only now does the light go from his eyes.

"No.” A plea that sounds as afraid and as weak as Hannibal accuses him of being.

_What are you afraid of, Will?_

This, he knows now. This hollowness ripped open in him deeper than Hannibal's knife could ever reach.

Tremors rock his body and despite them Will finds his sidearm. It's so heavy he can hardly lift it from its holster but he grits his teeth and squeezes hard against the grip and lifts it shaking at Hannibal.

The only one who can make all of it go away.

The only one who can undo all the carnage left in his wake.

He squeezes again. And again.

_We’re just alike._

He loses count at four. The shots thud heavy in his ears as slow as his heart beats, before the gun falls and Will's hands press into the blood on the floor. Everything echoes. Feels hollow. He can hear his blood and breath.

"No."

It hurts. The words, his lungs, the continuous throbbing in his head that Will can’t shake away. The cloying nausea at knowing that Hannibal is barely moving beside him when he reaches him.

"Don't."

He slips when he tries to crawl closer, crying out quietly when it winds him.

"Hannibal, don't." Will grits his teeth, reaches, searching for him, for something to pull himself closer as his other hand presses against the gaping wound in his stomach, slips beneath the skin.

Hannibal grunts, a soft sound of pain, when Will snags his fingers in his shirt and pulls. He can't feel, between them, whose blood belongs to whom. It doesn't matter.

_We could go._

"Will."

His profiler gasps, presses his forehead heavy against a wound he'd caused. And Hannibal's lips part.

_Forgive me._

_Forgive my weakness in this._

"Breathe," Will sobs, "please breathe."

_Close your eyes._

"Dammit..." Will's breathing hitches, shorter, softer. Hannibal can do nothing but lie back.

_Head back._

"Lie still,” he breathes.

_Wade into the river._

"Stay with me."

Will counts twelve heartbeats before he stops trying to match his erratic beat to Hannibal’s and just draws himself closer, inches that tear at the gash across his belly but there can't be much more left now, he hopes, it must be nearly finished.

He rests his head against Hannibal's shoulder and breathes soft against his skin.

Like a snake releasing its tail, Will feels himself uncoil against Hannibal, pressed fast against him, to share their remaining pulse between them.

They're safe now. They're back in Will's bed and they're safe. Back in Will's bed with the dogs and the soft sheets and the worn blankets, with the new window and the snow silent outside it, back where Will first knew he loved him and they're together and they’re warm despite the cold. They're warm and they're together and they're safe and there's no one but them.

_What would I do without you?_

Breathe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> head back, everyone
> 
> close your eyes
> 
> wade into the stream
> 
> and _wait_ <3


End file.
